No more school, no more books, no more teachers, dirty looks!
And here is the chance for you lucky escapees to read a new chapter of my Serial, Unbreakable. Chapter 14 has been written, edited and posted for your reading pleasure.
And here is the part where you ask, “but Mr. Callido (please, call me Angel), what happened to posting on Thursdays?” The answer really won’t surprise you. I was one day late for posting because my best friend was coming into the city, and what should I discover but that more people seem to have more time to read my serial and cast their votes on a Friday! What a goose I’ve been! So for now, I will be posting new chapters of Unbreakable on Fridays.
In all fairness, folks, it’s a psychological thing for me as well. It feels like I’ve got one more day per week to come up with something dynamite for my readers. That may not technically be the case, but like so many of us, I too succumb to the temptation to take it easier on a Friday. I’m lucky if I even sign a check that day, let alone write an email. So come, enjoy the fruits of my labor, thank my best friend for helping me to edit this chapter as she does so many others, and enjoy the read! Kenshiro’s waiting for you, and we all know how crazy HE gets, right?’
Don’t forget to vote on my chapters. You, my loyal readers, know this. Bring others along for the ride, and don’t forget to tell them to sign up and vote! Logan needs to hone his powers, doesn’t he? He can’t if there’s no reason. Think of the children! Even if they are somehow … different.
If you’re going to ask me “what’s new,” I’m going to answer you with the following sentiment: There’s a lot to tell.
I’ve found myself wondering why some people have a tendency to tell me that there “isn’t much to tell” when it comes to their own lives. I know this isn’t the case. For my short time on this earth, I’d like to think that I’ve learned some things about the complexity of life. I tend to want to hear people’s stories. If I’m asking you what you did before you came to work, for instance, I genuinely want to know what makes you tick.
And don’t make the mistake of thinking that I interview people on the spot because I’m a writer and I want to secretly write them into my books. That isn’t the case for me. People’s motivations for getting up and being alive matter to me in the same way that mine do. I like to think that there are reasons for some of the crazy shit I end up doing. I believe that there are deep roots behind the emotions I experience when I run into an unexpected situation.
But maybe the real reason I’m writing this entry is because I can feel myself changing.
I don’t want to get lost in the crowd. I don’t want to be invisible or anonymous anymore. And part of the reason I don’t want these things anymore is because they no longer serve me.
It used to be a romantic concept for me to be the silent, wandering observer. In many ways, I still do that when the mood strikes me. If I want to think about the next few chapters of a book I am trying to write or edit, nothing does me better than to wander the streets of Manhattan and watch people. But I’ve been looking into people’s faces more and more of late. Instead of making up stories about them without their knowledge, I stare straight on and almost dare them to speak to me. I smile, I laugh, and I even interject myself into the occasional conversation about ice skating and coffee at a Starbucks just before I buy that white chocolate mocha and wander into the park.
That’s not the me that I am used to. If you want to know the truth, I haven’t done things like this since I was a very young kid.
I began to ask myself questions at the beginning of this week about how closed off I’ve been since I’ve moved back to New York City. In a city that seems to teem with life, how is it that I haven’t made new friends? Oh yes, it still appeals to me to some extent to keep myself a mystery; to hold onto the secrets of my sordid existence. But how secret is my presence on this planet going to remain if I’m busy trying to make a career out of writing? True, writers need a lot of alone time, and I finally seem to be able to get some when I need it. But people are social creatures, no matter how alone they wish to be. The art of being alone seems to manifest best when loners have the choice to reintegrate and be among others on a moment’s notice. Nobody can be truly alone, or they would cease to exist. If I wanted total Isolation, I could try something like solitary confinement, but I can pretty much guarantee that I wouldn’t like it once I woke up from a twelve hour sleep.
Certain aspects about my history are still very difficult to reconcile. Integrating the lessons from my past with my progress toward my long term goals is still a challenge. But utter silence and self isolation both fly in the face of everything I truly know about myself. I can yammer with the best of ‘em. I can hold my own in a political debate or a contest to see who can murder the most songs in a karaoke stand-off. Life is so damned funny to me these days that I stop every few minutes and laugh at nothing in particular.
How can I not explore social interaction when I have trained myself to read people so well? That’s easy. What I learned about people was how to read extreme, negative emotion. I can tell right away when someone is a bully, a sexual predator, a child abuser, or just not a nice person. But that’s a lot like a police officer who can spot a perp at 50 yards before he or she does anything to get themselves arrested. After decades of honing that skill, it’s become clear to me that it actually keeps me pretty separate from people. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s a fine thing to be able to tell these sick individuals apart from the rest of the populace if you mean to live another day on this planet or otherwise avoid trouble. I’ll neither understand nor accept child rapists, but I can spot them a mile off thanks to my past experience as a mental health professional. It helps to have a family member who was in law enforcement for more than two decades. But if you were to ask me if a woman was attracted to me, for instance, I’d say that more than half the time, I would give you the exact wrong answer.
So here’s to a new challenge for me coming in 2013. I haven’t waited that long to start the journey, but I’ll certainly continue it. The rule, if I want to call it that, is simple. I’ll hold my head up high, stop pretending that I’m invisible, and I’ll stop turning around and looking for trouble whenever I hear excited shouting in my own neighborhood. It seems simple, doesn’t it? Don’t think for a minute that this is not a major undertaking for me. But spending years in a shell after having been dealt a crappy hand by life has finally gotten old. I’ve already reclaimed writing as a part of my being. It’s time for the next step. It’s time to stop playing the social ninja.
No, that is not the new title of an autobiography!
That is the result of the votes I’ve gotten so far for all the chapters of my serial, ‘Unbreakable’ at Jukepopserials.com. I’m sitting at 39. I want to hit forty and go WAY beyond that. Take a few minutes and read Chapter 8 and vote on it if you haven’t done so already. If you’ve got longer and haven’t done so yet, read and vote for all eight chapters. You can’t lose if you love horror and paranormal writing!
I don’t wake up crying in our old apartment anymore.
I don’t see our cats stalking across the living room toward me, tails up and eyes wide, wondering why my eyes are doing funny things like leaking water.
I can’t see the front door the apartment we used to share. I’ve forgotten what color it is.
I’ve been able to recall less and less of our neighborhood walks. My old haunts are still fresh in my mind, but they don’t include the memory of your presence. I don’t feel you near me anymore when I walk in my favorite park. You’re not whispering in my ear when I stare at the ducks at my favorite pond. I no longer think of the touch of your skin when I imagine the smooth caress of a duckling’s feathers.
The tightness in my chest when I think about your absence has faded.
I can’t bring myself to compare the women I meet to you anymore. Their curves no longer remind me of yours. Their eyes don’t sparkle with the same blues. I am taken by individual personalities. I no longer detest the idea that my newest acquaintances carry similar personality quirks to yours. I evaluate on a case by case basis again.
I don’t remember what television shows we used to watch together.
How did we discover Tai Iced Tea together, or that the word “Pho” didn’t mean “enemy” in Vietnamese restaurants?
It’s time for me to move on.
I’ve stopped reading our letters to the phantoms of one another that neither of us could ever hope to be. I’ve stopped crucifying myself for not being the man I’ll never be.
I’ve stopped wondering what you wear to work. I don’t do your laundry anymore. I don’t wash your dishes. I no longer pick up your crap.
I don’t remember what your hair smells like anymore.
But make no mistake. I will always care.
Just as you were my deepest wound, you were my greatest love.
I’m still recovering my ability to trust. I am still learning the lessons of the heart that you tried to teach me, whether you know it or not.
We’ll always have the Space Needle and White Chocolate Mochas. We’ll always have the first time we made love.
I’ll always know your tender heart as you once knew mine. I’ll always see it in your photographs of roses. I’ll always feel it in the way you care for others. I’ll always remember it in your kiss.
Life is weird. Life is hard. I don’t know why, but I’m going through a blue period.
It isn’t as though there’s any reason that I can discern for it. Life may be hard, but I am living my dreams. I am writing for the masses. I hope to make some money at it someday. My work is being read by more and more people. I am having fun losing myself in the universes that I create.
I also feel alone even when I am surrounded by others.
I somehow don’t know how to react to the taste of success. It could be seconds away from my fingertips, and I would have an attack of nerves. I’d get cold feet if I had to give a speech in public. Maybe I should just read it in someone else’s voice!
I’ve gotten colder. I’m not going to lie. My inner warrior took over. My mind has been on nothing but self defense and survival for so long now, that I can’t seem to shut it off and just breathe. I can’t put down the sword.
How often does one receive an anonymous gift of flowers?
And how did I forget to breathe when I got that gift? It doesn’t seem right to me.
Plainly, I’ve more work to do in learning to accept friendship, gratitude, love, admiration, and respect. I somehow got the impression that I didn’t deserve any of those things. I’m not going to delve into my past. I’ve already been there and done that. It’s time to move on.
I made a video tonight with new free editing software. In truth, I’m not at all sure how I did it. I didn’t add any effects. I didn’t speed anything up or slow anything down. It just sort of came together and turned out pretty well. My writing is the same way. I don’t know where the fuck the next sentence is going to come from, but I plunk down one and than another. Before I even realize what I’ve done, I’ve amassed more than a thousand words inside of an hour.
I feel like my life has been that way. I don’t have a plan. I just get up, suit up, show up and hope to goodness that something good comes from my efforts.
Life often fucks with me when I make too many plans. So I have to tread with some care, it seems.
I’m awfully tired lately. I have a short fuse. People who waste my time become nothing but irritants.
And I’m worrying everyone around me. Co workers shake their heads and wonder why I go silent. Friends ask me what the matter is. My parents cock their heads and furrow their brows.
I feel like telling them all to back off.
But I won’t. It isn’t anyone’s intention to get under my skin or to try to make me admit to things that I don’t want to talk about. But the only answer I have for such a question is “don’t give up on me.” I can’t speed this along. I’m obviously in it. I’ll figure my way out of it. I always do.
Though I wonder if I’ve spent my entire life living with such a pattern. Perhaps these mood swings are seasonal in nature. It might explain why I brood so much during the fall.
Then again, maybe I brood because I haven’t yet learned to recognize my own progress.
It’s a lesson we might all need to be reminded of. It pays to take stock, but to focus too narrowly on one single detail can be toxic.
I’ll hold onto my flowers. I’ll keep writing my stories. I’ll keep blogging, recording my voice and making my vids.
I’ll keep trucking. With some better rest along the way, even I might learn to see the bright side of life.
Until then, maybe it’s best if I just get through the obstacles in my way and move along until I give a damn again.
Anyways, enjoy the vid. I made this bad boy myself
I’d like to start this blog by saying that I was on a hiatus for a bit. A friend of mine came into the city and I decided to show her a good time. There are pictures. No, not that kind, you sick perverts!
As a result of my mini “staycation,” I stayed away from most social media. I didn’t even e-mail more than once, and that was to confirm that I was continuing a writing project that I started many moons ago.
My writing is going very well, I think, despite all the challenges that life seems to throw at me. I’m one busy motherfucker. I have the cleaning project in this apartment that has all but consumed my life when I am not working. I’m taking a break from that messy business. It’s done great things for this house and for my own mental health, but the process of getting cleaned up around here has been slow, and at times, so fucking aggravating that I want to snap someone’s neck and call it a day. I’m glad I took some time.
But my mindset since I’ve gotten back from that hiatus has been one of purposeful relaxation. I don’t want to delve back into the rat race that quickly. I’ve got to catch up with myself. I’m a bit tired of putting the needs of others above my own. My balance has been off in that respect. It happens. Life hurls its many curve balls at me, I get busy, and I don’t take the time to take care of me. I get sick or I get sick and tired. Those are apparently very different states of being according to my mother.
Cue studio audience laughter.
Parents have a way of making their adult children think about the course of their own lives. My parents are no exception.
A friend of mine engaged me in a discussion this afternoon before work. Of course, it started when the word “denial” came up. The word “denial” immediately puts me on the defensive. I won’t make any bones about that. But my friend, as far as I could tell, was genuinely concerned that I don’t appear to know how to slow down. Our discussion took on several different dimensions of course, but this is the one that stuck with me all the way through work this afternoon. It’s the one thing that I kept thinking about as I hurled myself into my captains chair and tried with utter desperation to bring the fun in.
If I have to try that hard to bring the fun in, perhaps the vacation wasn’t long enough.
But this is not the first time that this has come up in discussion this week.
Another friend of mine expressed concern that I won’t let anyone into my heart.
A third friend of mine seems worried that I don’t talk much.
My co workers seem to think I’ve become withdrawn.
With all these concerns coming to the fore AFTER I’ve just had a vacation, I was forced to consider the very real possibility that people simply didn’t like that I was gone for as long as I was. Even today, people expressed concern that I was in the back of the store at work pretty much my entire shift. My job sort of requires that right now, so I have little choice. But even I have to admit, after so much public face time and customer contact, being stuck in a little alcove in front of an elevator processing returns all day long feels isolating.
I’m beginning to worry.
My parents have put their two cents in. For some reason, their interjections on this subject have made me angry.
My father tells me “kid, you look tired and you work too hard.” Never mind that virtually every other day after work, he makes plans for my time that involve even more home projects that I am getting rather sick of doing. I have to shake my head at chuckle when he does this and then tells me “relax, kid,” as though I’m the one who keeps coming up with all this shit.
On the other hand, this is what my typical week looks like.
I wake up at 6 am monday morning. I prepare for an early work day. I got to work at nine.
After work, I do a load or two of laundry. It takes hours.
After that, I edit my story and try to catch up with my friends.
Maybe, I get some sleep.
The next morning, I do MORE laundry before a closing shift at my job.
The third day is a morning at work. If I’m lucky, I can rest after work this day, except I almost always have errands to run concerning my family. Even better, I’ve got writing projects that I’ve been putting off for so long that I try to do some of them. But my brain is so shot and I’ve had such a tiring previous couple of days that I get very little done. I start to wonder where my discipline has gone.
And then, I do the social networking thing.
Oi.
Thursdays are my last day at work for the week. I want to say that this means I have some fun. I can do that most of the time. But then the drama begins at home. Someone at home always has to make a scene at the end of my work week. Drunken arguing ensues. I slam my door and try not to regret that I came home at all.
Friday and Saturday. These are supposed to be fun days. Of late, they are replete with a lot of work. My cleaning project is foremost on the list of chores. My autistic brother decides to intervene by making noise and complaining when I won’t let him play with my keys. I try to maintain good humor and patience through all of this, but the previous week has been stressful. I compromise on everything. I don’t even get to use my bathroom when I want to this day because my father is busy doing an hour and a half long asthma treatment two times a day in our only bathroom. I’m getting angrier, but I press on because I know that this will all be worth it, right?
Meanwhile, I have NO social life to speak of in this city. I don’t hang out with family. That may have something to do with the fact that they all seem to want to give me advice that I don’t ask for. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been gone from most of their lives for so long that they no longer can relate to me in any other way. Some of them scare me with their sheer ignorance. Others are just living their lives, and we’ve remained separate for long periods of time.
I was gone for ten years. I won’t deny that it hurt some people. But I won’t apologize either. That was my time to figure out some things I needed to know. I’ll ask those of you who bother to get to know me again to remember that.
But I’ll only ask once. I have no energy to repeat myself.
I worry that I’ve swung my katana too hard. I’ve scared people away with my intensity. I’ve intimidated them with my inability to slow down. I’ve elicited concern and, in some cases, alarm from my nearest and dearest.
And I won’t lie. I am tired. So tired.
But I can’t stop fighting. I have goals to meet. I’ve got a life to live. I’ve got dreams.
Are all of these things supposed to fade into nothingness again like they did before? Are all of my own aspirations supposed to take a back seat again because I grow so tired of trying to balance it all on my shoulders?
I can’t allow that. If my ten year absence taught me anything at all, it is that I cannot allow my dreams to fade. I will not allow anyone to tear me away from my writing and my art. I can’t bear the thought that I have to sacrifice those things again so that someone else will think I’m doing something “practical” with my life. FUCK PRACTICAL! Practical doesn’t make anyone smile when they wake up in the morning. Practical is what you reserve for balancing a budget or figuring out how to dress your kids for school while writing a grocery list.
It’s NOT the word you use when you talk of love for something, or someone.
.. I’m afraid I don’t always know what real love is.
That scares me more than anything in this world. All this hard work and all this running around, being fast and efficient means nothing. All this motion and repetition leaves me feeling cold on the weekends. It leaves me feeling rather irritated with most people.
Am I growing colder?
Is exhaustion taking away my humanity? Am I killing my own spirit with too much work and worry?
These are legitimate questions.
The calm of a weary warrior suffuses my being. It is the calm that comes before the storm.
Maybe as I wipe the blood from my sword in my private forest sanctuary, I’ll stick the blade in the soft earth, lean my head upon the hilt and just weep.
Have fun with this latest post. I don’t have a bouncing ball for you to follow, so my words are below.
There isn’t much to tell.
A lot of good things come to those who get up in the morning, suit up and show up for life. Hard work and discipline help me to surmount the obstacles that stand in my way. I toil, I fix things when I break them, I put things back where I found them, and I try my best to leave the world a better place than it was when I found it.
But it appears that there is yet another lesson to be learned in all of this. Social networking, making new friends, and sharing the ups and downs of life with others have made something crystal clear for me in this past week.
I take on too much.
I’ve been forced to draw lines in the sand with people these last few months. Unneeded drama really does unsettle me. I don’t exercise patience with those who would choose to surround themselves with it. To embroil myself in the “he said, she said” arguments of others leaves me feeling confused, angry, and ultimately alone. I try my best to avoid it.
But even my best efforts can fall short.
I do try to be there for the people who matter most to me. I’ve made some beautiful friends. They all have varied personalities. But I have a tendency to want to look out for people who mean something to me. When I was younger, that manifested in a strong desire to rescue others who appeared “lost.” It even led to what I thought would be my ultimate life calling.
I wanted to be a therapist.
But life happened. Some people came and went. Others stayed. In the last decade of my life, I discovered some ugly realities about people and choices.
Fast forward to my life in New York City. I can count the close friends that I have on one hand. When I devote myself to someone, I remain loyal no matter the cost. But that means that I must watch myself in my dealings with others. I must chose my words carefully. I must not make promises that I know I can’t keep.
Now I’m here. I’ve realized something as I lick my wounds and prepare for the battles that lay ahead.
Among people there may be no such thing as unconditional love.
I’m here to propose that maybe that’s not always a bad thing.
Among my truest friends, there are varied talents, desires, and life goals. It can be quite the adventure to navigate through all of those to get to know these people better as time goes on. The ones who have stuck with me the longest are the ones who are willing to let me get to know them, and to get to know me in turn. These are the ones who listen to me as often as I listen to them. I can’t really say that any one of these friends has a drama free existence. Frankly, my life is replete with opportunity for melodramatic nonsense. But the realist in me wants to know that the people in my life can hold down the fort until I get to the scene of the carnage. The pragmatist in me needs my friends to exercise self awareness, to know when to put up and when to shut up. The warrior in me knows that I can’t be there for everyone all the time.
I’ve lost sight of that somehow, and it bothers me.
My inner samurai seems to have his sword drawn all the time now for someone else’s defense. What happens to a warrior that rescues all his comrades in arms? Does he ever see the enemy coming from the side if he’s busy smiting the pursuers of his friends?
If I am a friend, it’s until you find some way to make me deviate from my course. Those who know me well are in no doubt of my sincerity or loyalty.
But I do make mistakes. I do, on occasion, open my mouth to switch feet. As eloquent as I can be, I have used the wrong words, and made the wrong impressions. I have hurt other people’s feelings. All I can do is apologize and move on. I can’t be perfect. Nature is as close to perfection as anything gets on this planet, and even it can get under my skin.
Only someone who knows themselves well will understand and pursue what makes them happiest in life. At some point in adult existence, people draw their own conclusions about life, love and the universe. We all must move through this world on our own, and yet we can’t do it by ourselves.
It is one of the many ironies of my own existence that I’ve stopped trying to puzzle out.
If I meet you along the path of my own journey, the warrior in me simply hopes not to cross swords with you. The friend in me might stop and offer a greeting. As an older brother to someone vulnerable, I’m used to being a protector.
But I am no mind reader. I never was. I must make do with the information I am given.
I make no promises and I tell no lies. In the end, you can all think of me what you will.
I think I heard a movie quote once that sums it up rather nicely.
Here is another post. This one is somber. It has no swears words, but I sill don’t recommend it for kids.
Remember September 11th, 2001?
I do ..
I’m headed away from my favorite refuge in New York City.
The lake is to my left as I walk underneath a blazing sun. It should be setting soon, but summer days are always longer than I expect. I forget about things like summer solstice and the tilting of the earth as it spins on its axis. Who thinks of those things unless they’re astronomers, meteorologists or the like?
As usual, it feels as though I’m walking against a tide. People are walking further into the park during the evening, and I am walking toward the Columbus Circle exit. I’ve already had my meditative, transcendental moment. I’ve seen the ripples of the water underneath the sun, and I’ve let my being float as the visage takes over me. I’ve seen the expansion of the Universe.
I’ve seen it and I remember the 3000 plus people who died that day.
September the 11th 2001.
The day lives on in my head, and I cannot let it go even after all this time.
I was here when first plane hit. My aunt called my apartment that morning. She called and told me what she’d seen and heard. I woke up my parents at seven AM, wondering if my aunt was being fooled by some Hollywood stunt.
An airplane hit the Twin Towers in Downtown Manhattan. It had been flown into the building as though the pilot were on some Kamikaze mission to kill and to die in Pearl Harbor. It happened in one of the busiest, most famous cities in the country, and nobody could fathom the reality of the situation. I’ve spoken to other New Yorkers who were around at that time. Most were convinced that it was some sort of Hollywood stunt, as though some remake of King Kong were being made, but footage was being filmed without the CGI of some giant ape.
Three thousand people died in the twin towers. It was hard to fathom as the buildings collapsed on themselves like two houses of cards. People were being mangled, maimed and killed before my eyes. It was impossible to fathom even when names were being shown on a television screen days later. I had no idea people were capable of such things.
The effect of such a day was far reaching for people.
I haven’t been ready to talk about it, to write about it until now, and it’s been more than a decade. I can tell you all what happened to me during and after the fateful event.
I can tell you all how it changed my life permanently.
The first thing that I can write with certainty is that I was here. I had just gotten my second surgery for traumatic cataract formation. I had my real eye lenses removed and replaced with plastic ones. I was able to see clearly when the second plane hit.
I never got to see the first plane.
The second thing I can tell you all is that my mom and I had had a massive argument just days before and were not speaking with one another. I can’t tell you what the argument was about because I can’t remember. We both forgot all hostilities when the planes hit. We called a cease fire as we smoked our cigarettes together and stood glued to the television, wondering and afraid.
My father had to go retrieve my little brother from his school program in downtown Manhattan that morning. From what he tells me, people abandoned their cars and their homes to flee from the carnage. Hours later, people walked as though in a daze. They were zombies in the terrifying new world that would soon yield a War on Terror and thousands upon thousands of deaths in the Middle East.
An ex girlfriend of mine was the first of my friends from out of state to make contact with me. I was unable to call my partner at the time as she was living in Minnesota. None of the rest of my friends knew my whereabouts or what had become of me until I posted an update on Facebook.
It’s one of the only reasons I respect the website to this day.
The night after the attacks, I went to Ground Zero and volunteered my services. It was all that I could do not to scream at the massive Military Serviceman who turned me away. Sporting fatigues, a beret, and a rifle that would have scared even the most battle hardened of New Yorkers, he smiled as he told me my “services were not required.”
I’ll never forget the man.
I’ll never forget him because I met his brothers and sisters in arms as they guarded Kennedy Airport during my flight back to Minnesota.
And I’ll never be able to fly again without some sense of trepidation.
My flight back to Minnesota was one of the scariest days of my life. I learned what fear could really do to a person’s judgment. I called home to tell my parents I was terrified because there were Middle Eastern business men on my flight. What I didn’t realize until years later was that they were being closely guarded by U.S. Air Marshalls.
I don’t know who they were, and to this day I don’t much care. I landed in Minnesota in one piece. I got to spend time in my ex’s arms again. I got to live.
I lived while so many others did not.
I can’t forget that.
A flag with the names of the deceased sits in a plastic bag among my artifacts from that day. I still have a New York newspaper that chronicles the incident, and another newspaper that commemorates the one year anniversary of the attacks. I still can’t watch footage of those attacks without a sense of sheer panic.
I don’t smoke anymore.
And I know now that I have no excuse not to live life to the fullest, to hold fast to my dreams and to those whom I love.
This is just a taste of what the events of that day have done to change my entire being. Someday, I may write a more detailed account of the day’s events and their aftermath. But for now, I choose to remember what happened, the victims, their families, and what life itself means to me. Different people will have different memories of September 11th, 2001. They can do what they did in light of Kennedy’s assassination. They can ask that question that I have grown to understand more fully as an adult in this world.
“One sticks to an opinion because he prides himself on having come to it on his own, and another because he has taken great pains to learn it and is proud to have grasped it: and so both do so out of vanity.” – Friedrich Neitzsche
This recording is more than 12 minutes long. It is an opinion piece. It has strong language unsuitable for small children. Enjoy!
I have an opinion to offer here about the welfare system. Let me start this piece by saying this. I can already tell that this will piss people off.
Before any of you continue to either read this or listen to it as it is recited in my dulcet tones, remember this. Everyone has the right to their own opinions. I will always welcome the honest discourse that can come from controversial issues. Emotions are likely to come into the mix. I have to accept that, as does everyone else.
But the one thing that I do NOT have to accept is that your version of events is the only one that matters. Aside from the fact that it isn’t true, the very idea that you can force your opinions down my throat is the epitome of rudeness. So do yourself a favor and don’t bring that assumption to any discussion that follows from this post. All I’m going to do is ignore you. I haven’t the time or the energy for your misplaced anger or your unproven rhetoric and propaganda.
That being said, I’ve got a bone to pick about a recent post on facebook.
This is an opinion I made the mistake of reposting on Facebook. But make no mistake. I can only say I agree with what I believe the sentiment behind the post is ..
This is the post. Link to it if you want to, but you’re going to have a reaction.
A bunch of users on Facebook did. I shouldn’t have been surprised seeing as it’s such a controversial issue.
But there were a couple of ways that this discussion could have gone. I am not happy with the direction that was chosen. Many words were exchanged. Many opinions were given. I’m going to be honest here and say that I don’t believe that any of the opinions, including mine, were completely informed.
Let me say that again for those who didn’t catch it the first time. None of the opinions that were offered, INCLUDING MY OWN were completely informed.
But allow me to give you my initial impression of the words in this post.
We are talking about the issue of drug testing for welfare recipients. The idea now exists that welfare recipients will need to be tested for the use of illegal substances in order to receive government assistance. The people who read and reposted this on facebook may have had any number of reasons for doing so. The only thing that I can tell you that they all had in common is that they supported the notion of doing it in all fifty states.
I reposted it. it sits on my timeline today. And guess what? I am NOT taking it down.
Perhaps I’ve drawn a line in the sand over this because of the discussion that followed. I’m not even sure that I can call it a discussion. I’m not going to say that the things that I expressed as part of the plethora of commentary were based on more than raw emotion and experience. But what I will say is that I am extremely sad that someone felt the need to question my friendship with them over the issue. A statement was made that anyone who reposted the post should just “unfriend” the person.
I refuse to do it.
To have a friendship be put at risk over an argument in which we can easily chose to agree to disagree doesn’t seem right to me. Perhaps emotions were running extremely high. I can attest to feeling more and more anger as I kept having to defend my own position in this matter. But this person laid their cards on the table for everyone to read.
I think it’s my turn to show my hand.
I will not lose a friend over an issue about which nobody has a complete understanding.
I was given so called “facts” about this issue that were based on some study in Florida. In my opinion, the results of studies that are simply spewed in the media are of no interest to me. There are two reasons for this. One of them is that I took behavioral statistics in college, and if there is one thing that has stuck with since I finished that class, it is that the data and results from such studies can be skewed according to the agendas of whomever presents the information or funds the studies in the first place. The sources of information matter here. Of course, any of you can fire back on this issue and wonder where I got the information to inform my opinions. Do yourselves a favor and take a course in behavioral statistics, or statistics of any kind before you choose to engage me in this issue. Form your own opinions after you’ve had to DO your own group research. Go ahead and formulate a hypothesis, gather the information, crunch the numbers, obtain a P-value, and then try to interpret the meaning of the p value in the most scientifically objective way possible. You may come to the same conclusion that I did.
The data are too easy to manipulate to fit your own mood.
A number is supposed to be a static value by its normal definition. But the means by which a P value is calculated vary slightly depending on how the data is gathered, how many test subjects there are, etc. If any of you have taken multi variate math, you are well aware that the math can become complicated fast. The more variables need to be accounted for in an experiment, the more complex the methods for gathering the data become. Results need to be interpreted in as objective a way as possible. But here’s the catch. Even after you gather the data, crunch the numbers and try to present your case, you’ve got to remember who funded the study, don’t you? Drug companies are notorious for making sure that the results of their studies are presented as though they are irrefutable proof of success. As far as I know, the way ensure that results of an experiment are sound is repetition. Simply put, the same exact experiment must be performed by different scientists who are exploring the same hypothesis.
Now, knowing the variability of the human condition, how easy do you all believe this is?
Forgive me, therefore, if I scoff at the notion that your certainty about the national effectiveness of such a policy can come from a single study from a single state. You can’ t tell me that the results from one study in Florida would be the same as they would be in New York, In New Jersey, Minnesota, or any other state in the union. I would want to see the P values that were obtained, know the number of subjects who were included in the study, and I would simply want to know if the experiment was one that could be repeated. In other words, if this policy hasn’t been implemented in other states yet, you have no basis for knowing that it would not work in the rest of the country. Therefore, you may need to reassess your assumption that it would be a national failure.
But in the end, this is part of my opinion.
The SECOND part of my problem with the Florida study has to do with personal experience. Simply put, I’ve been though much when it comes to government assistance programs, unemployment, partial employment, and the notion of welfare applicants who are willing to cheat the system. For those of you who mentioned it, you may be absolutely right to believe that the government has wasted far too much money, and that fat cat corporate asshats have abused the system to the tune of billions more dollars. What they’ve done is so far beyond my scope of experience that I can’t even begin to fathom the assbeating that I would give one of them if they were to show their snotty little faces in my direction.
But that will never happen, folks.
The truth is, as someone that has ALSO had to navigate the murky, shark infested waters of poverty in this country for nearly a decade, I have no sympathy for those who would chose to cheat the welfare system so callously when there are so many other poor, struggling individuals (including ex convicts) who are trying their damndest to make an honest living. What do we tell the ex convict who gets out of prison about the meaning of honesty when we can’t guarantee some sort of regulation of illegal drug use among welfare recipients? I’ve seen way too many assholes stroll through the Fred Meyer at which I used to work during the first of the month to get their hands on alcohol using their food stamps and SNAP cards. That’s just for LEGAL drugs! I’ve seen too many others who use the money to buy and sell drugs. I’ve worked with too many mental health patients in my time who are busy bucking the system to give a good God DAMN what some study in Florida says.
I’ve also had to accept government assistance while being both unemployed and partially employed. For those who don’t know, let me enlighten you. At least in Oregon, the system doesn’t encourage you to work as hard as you might think. You will have to be careful who you talk to, you must keep careful records, and you are held under the thumb of some serious number crunching as you try to match the hours that you work (if you’re lucky enough to have a part time job) with the funds that the government will give you to you to help meet your weekly or monthly expenses. If you work past a set amount of hours, you will be cut off from government aid. Believe me, when someone like me wakes up in the morning as has to ask myself what the fucking point of working is, the system really IS broken.
I’ve lived with and seen these things for myself, and it has made me furious beyond belief. So yes, I am admitting right now that my opinion is based on emotion and experience.
But that’s what an opinion, is, isn’t it?
I think the real reason this may be getting under my skin is because it takes me back to my days at Macalester College where I was continually called out for my not wanting take place in campus wide protests regarding things like the World Trade Organization, global warming, recycling, and other such talk. There was even one protest that got confrontational when students organized a takeover of one of the campus buildings and essentially refused to allow the normal functioning of the administration if it could be helped.
My reaction to these events is the same as it was when people took over Wall Street in my own city. What the fuck do you know about any of it? For that matter, what do I know about any of it?
I literally asked ten students who were protesting the WTO all those years ago on campus. I desperately wanted to understand the furrowed brows, the rasied voices, the gritted teeth. I don’t even remember what the protest was about. Perhaps that’s because none of the students I asked could give me a cogent explanation for their actions. They simply jumped on the bandwagon, but in the other direction. Neither bandwagon gets you anywhere, so why spew rhetoric and propaganda for either side?
How do these events affect you as an individual?
Anyone can tell me where they were during September the eleventh 2001. The event clearly had a pronounced affect on the American populous. But can anyone tell me why it happened? Can anyone please enlighten me as to why 3000 people had to die in front of my eyes that day? The answer is a resounding no, and we all know it!
Were any of the protestors on Wall Street bringing attention to an issue? Of course they were. But they were also annoying the hell out of potential employers, many of whom I’d applied to work with. And I’m sorry to say it, but it seems to me that some of the ones who protest the loudest over certain issues are the ones who have the time and the resources to do it without real consequences. While you all were sitting and doing various things on Wall street, I was busy looking for a fucking job. That was my reality then, and this is my reality now.
This entire facebook discussion reached its peak during my lunch break from the only job I was able to land in fourteen months.
Please don’t tell me what to think. You will not like my response.
I’m trying something different for this post. These are my recorded thoughts on the concept of “salvation.” Follow the bouncing ball ..
Wait .. that would be easier if there WERE a bouncing ball, but here’s the next best thing. Listen and follow along with the words below the video if you’d like.
However, I must warn you, there’s foul language in this piece. It isn’t suitable for kids.
Enjoy!
Nobody ever said it would be easy.
But if they had told me how hard it would get, I might have thought twice about this whole “life” deal. It’s not like I can remember standing in front of God and hearing a booming voice say
“Let’s see which door this one chooses, huh folks?”
There wasn’t really a choice involved. I was born to the people who raised me. I was born into a family with a lot of issues.
But If anyone had told me that this meant screaming matches with someone I used to love at four o clock in the morning, I would have told them had me confused with someone far less well adjusted.
And I would have been wrong.
My views on alcoholism haven’t changed. I’ve known too many people with the disease. As both a hospital and retail employee, I’ve seen strangers with the addiction. It’s different when the effects of the disease are something that I can’t walk away from. It assumes a permanence in my psyche. I wish it wouldn’t.
It isn’t like there aren’t a great deal of other things for me to think about. I’ve got other dreams to pursue. I’ve got goals. I didn’t sign up for this. I feel like I’ve been drafted into an army of disposable heroes, and I keep asking myself one question that I think I heard in famous movie once.
“How do I get out of this chicken shit outfit?”
Perhaps a faceless drill sergeant will point his or her finger at me and tell me to “secure that shit.” But I didn’t sign up be a in a fucking army. I never agreed to this shit.
So thanks for the advice, serge, but you can suck my balls.
I don’t know that I would have made it in the army. I appreciate the soldiers who can walk the walk. I have enormous respect for the troops who are overseas representing the United States of America, and I can’t even begin to fathom what it would have been like to fight in each of the world wars of human history.
But as far as I know, war is a human concept. Strategic combat on that sort of scale may in fact be a uniquely human invention.
I, for one, would like to focus my energies in a more creative setting.
I’ve always created worlds into which I could escape when the realities of this world proved to be too unwieldy. Too many people in my life have told me to “grow the fuck up” and stop fucking with fantasy. They’ve told me to “think practically.” They’ve told me to “focus on the here and now.”
Personally, I think they talk too much. I’ve found that most of the same people who tell me that the daily grind of work and family are all there is to life haven’t tried hard enough to be happy.
Happiness is work.
I think about this in terms of writing and I know my conclusions are right.
You can tell anyone you want to that you’re a writer, but as a friend and fellow blogger wrote recently, a lot of people have a tendency to belittle that statement. I have to say I agree with her assessment.
You’re always going to find those who look at you and wonder that you can say that with a straight face. Some will challenge you outright, asking you what books you’ve written. Others will simply laugh and say “no, seriously.”
I don’t want to tell anyone in my family that I write. Even the people who know will probably wonder why I ventured into it in the first place. They’ll forget that I entered a story telling contest as a 9 year old kid, memorized an entire book and RETOLD that story in a way that made most of the adults in the room cry, including my own father. They’ll fail to recall the hours that I spent, pen in hand, writing my own versions of fairytales, movie scripts, and stories of the events of my day. These people will not understand that I went to college in disguise. I donned the garb of a healer/scholar, and I wore it well enough to fool the masses for more than a decade.
But college proved to me what a lie that really was. Stories were the food for my soul. The lives and motivations of others were what sustained me. I ventured into psychology as a major, thinking that it would be an easy way to “still be a doctor,” since that was what I told everyone in my family that I wanted to be.
Again, I was wrong, but it would take me more than a decade after my graduation to finally accept that my muse had been waiting to greet me again with open arms. A relationship of ten years crumbled around my ears before I finally accepted that I didn’t know who I was anymore, and that I’d stopped caring.
A friend of mine was doing some sort of film project in college. I couldn’t tell you if it was for a class, but he was interviewing students and asking them some very poignant questions. He asked one question that has stuck with me over the years.
“What does salvation mean to you?”
I remember the answer I gave him back then as the camera lens took in every blemish of my face and every expression of my dark eyes.
“I believe that salvation comes from within.”
I still believe it.
I was raised catholic, and I was raised in a family that believed in things like divine intervention, fate, and all sorts of other concepts that I never really took to as a kid. I was a little control freak. I was a picky eater. I didn’t want my choices taken from me just because some big, mean man couldn’t handle that I didn’t want to sit still and listen to boring stories.
But what I didn’t realize until I was in the first grade was that I wanted to tell my OWN!
Show and tell was an interesting concept for me in school in elementary school. It wasn’t easy for me so sit still and listen to other kids and their stories sometimes, but I used to anyway because there was something for me to learn in each story. “This kid likes chocolate, that girl likes trees.”
But then my turn would come, and I would talk about the things that happened in my life. I would leave my classmates “spellbound.”
At least, that’s what the teacher told my father on “parent teacher” night before she went on to tell him that I had trouble listening and not daydreaming in class.
Those are hard moments to forget, but somehow, I allowed the memories to fade.
That was a mistake, and one that I don’t intend to make ever again.
When I gave my friend that answer in college, I didn’t have a clear sense of what my personal salvation would be. I can type and speak these words now with a fuller understanding of that that word means to me.
There is no magic bullet for happiness. There are no words that a shaman or a priest can utter that bring automatic joy to anyone’s lives. That sort of magical thinking ,to me, represents a misunderstanding of egregious proportions.
The universe owes me nothing. It’s just there, just as I am here.
In terms of life, writing is the same as many other things. You can only learn it by doing it. You can only perfect it through practice. You can only improve it by sharing it with others and getting their insight.
You suit up, show up, and get down to it and see what happens. That’s what writing is to me.
That’s what life is.
Perhaps the ultimate lesson here is that when one seeks salvation, they might just discover that it lies in the living of life. Getting out there, meeting people and having experiences are the things that life has to offer you if you are willing to reach for them. Sometimes it may feel like you have to stretch until your muscles ache, until the skin is peeled from your bones. Your day might end with you having nicked your hands on many thorns. But, to me, even the thorns are worth it. The pain means just as much to me as the pleasure. It can be just a powerful tool for learning as a hug.
By J. Marie Ravenshaw – Look for the story, “Gable’s Leatherworks” in Siren’s Call’s “Now I Lay Me Down to Reap” anthology. You won’t ever see the old woman across the way in the same light!
Look for J Marie Ravenshaw’s “The Silver Comb” in Siren’s Call’s “Twisted Realities of Myth and Monstrosity” Anthology
By Edward Lorn – Buy it NOW!
By Edward Lorn – Check it out NOW!
By Edward Lorn -Highly Recommended- BUY IT NOW!!
By Edward Lorn – A Great Read for Halloween or Any Other Night!
By the Lovely and Talented Adriana Noir
By Mara McBain – A great read. It’s on MY kindle. Get it and put it on yours!
By Shaun Adams. Also Recommended. I’ve got my Kindle copy. Get yours!
